Crossing the Line
by dutchesscourtney
Summary: PUBLISHED! COMPLETE! Drum set player Julia McCoy is not a typical marching band member. Forced to move across country and become a rookie as a junior, the newest quint deals with an intense Instructor, a cheerleader and the possibility of love in her own
1. We're Moving?

**Crossing the Line**

_AN: I couldn't help myself. I really couldn't. I tried, but well, I had another character who was trying to get out and who am I to tell her no? She's a feisty one!_

_Go easy on me…just writing what I know best, but since I'll be saying goodbye (sniff) to the Brookwood universe (although I won't rule out cameos) in the next few months, this is a new marching band world just waiting for my drama (insert evil grin!). I'm also giving the first person thing a try. Let me know how I'm doing._

_Give a chapter or two for the marching stuff to kick in._

_I do own the characters._

_**This is just a preview of the rough draft. The final draft will be available later this year.**  
_

* * *

**Chapter 1: We're Moving?**

I couldn't believe it. I sat in shock.

In front of me sat the two people who brought me in to this world. They were supposed to love and comfort me, support me, but I now knew that was a bunch of crap. My whole life up until this point (15 years and 2 months) had been a total lie.

"Julia, you can't sit there and not say anything. Tell us how you feel."

"I'll tell you how I feel…" I won't actually fill in the details of what I said, because I used every four letter word I knew, but I think they certainly knew how I felt after that.

Both of my parents looked at me and my crazy mouth.

My Dad's jaw tensed, "Very mature, J. As convincing as your argument is, the decision is not open for discussion. We're going to let you finish the school year and then we're moving."

So that was it then. I know, a big part of me wanted to cry and heave and throw things at the wall, but I knew it wouldn't work. If I knew my parents, which up until five minutes ago I thought I did, they had already bought the house and were just waiting for me, their only daughter, to finish school so they could move on. Anyway, no amount of me acting like a five year old was really going to amount in anything productive. Plus, that's just not my style. I use tantrums only when necessary and this was not one of those times.

I got up calmly, and said, "Obviously, I have some calls to make."

I could go all "when life gives you lemons…" but I wasn't in a very lemonade kind of place at that moment. I mean, if my life was some sort of bad movie, I was looking at the chance to start everything with a clean slate, where no one knew me and I could basically invent the person I wanted to be. The trouble was, I liked my current life and self just fine and didn't need any sort of "restart" option.

I dashed outside with my phone (all that babysitting money had paid off in the freedom of a lame old school Nokia cell phone) and began calling the four most important people in my life: Roman, Petey, Dominic, and Kat. My band. I convinced them all to meet at the closest Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in half an hour. Being all of sweet fifteen, I didn't have the legal ability to drive yet, so Roman, my kind of boyfriend, said he would pick me up.

Approximately one hour later (this is California and you can't do anything or get anywhere in a half hour) we all sat around the table. Kat the mysterious. Dominic the dense. Petey the goof. Roman the well, semi-charming. We were Jared in Shorts. That's our band's name and there's a rather long and involved story of how we got it, so I won't bore you with the details, because, like any band, we're probably going to change it next week anyway.

Kat was the first to recover, "You're doing what?"

"Personally,_ I'm_ not doing per se, it's my parents that are."

Dominic said, "And you're sure you have to go?"

Roman just sat there with a smoldering look in those dark brown eyes of his. He and I had only started a thing, and now that thing was about to be prematurely terminated. I wasn't about to kid myself that someone with a high cuteness factor like Roman was going to remain unattached for some girl who was thousands of miles away. But that didn't change the fact that it still sucked.

Petey said in a bummed voice, "Where are we going to find another drummer?"

So, with the end of the school year a month away, I threw myself into soaking up as much of my former lifestyle as possible. I went to the beach. I did a bunch of touristy things, like go to Disneyland with my friends. I consumed my weight in In and Out burgers (animal style, of course). I helped my old band mates try and find another drummer…and was secretly pleased when they didn't find one right away.

We played one last gig…someone in the senior class was having a graduation party and had booked us awhile back. We're pretty good, for a high school band. I'd say we had a kind of punky-emo sound going on. Obviously, I'm not into labels, so I would say furthermore, that Jared in Shorts has a lot of influences and leave it at that. If you got a look at my iPod, you'd know what I was talking about. Anyway, we'd talked about going to a studio and actually recording ourselves instead of just ghetto recording ourselves on Garage Band. But, _le sigh_, our seven track CD, entitled "That Old World Flair" is all I have to take with me…

While the month whipped by in record time, I realized that I should've seen the signs that my parents were moving. Mom was taking all these business trips and looking at real estate brochures and watching the HGTV channel like, all the time. (Don't get me wrong, I like HGTV, but not all the time, seriously…). We were moving from Southern California to some suburb in Atlanta. Like y'all, these places could not be more different…

I'm a West Coast girl. Born and bred. I don't do cold weather. I don't do rain. I certainly don't do humidity. I've seen enough celebrities to last me a life time. Who am I going to see in Atlanta? Scarlet O'Hara? Ludacris?

So, there's one other thing you should know about me before I actually move. Well, first I'll let you try and guess. What do you think I do (wait, let me correct myself, what _did _I do) in the band? Lead singer? No! I can only do back up vocals and even then I really hate the sound of my own voice. Bass? Nope. What does that leave really? Drums! I am a drum set player. It started a long time ago when my parents bought me a dorky little drum set for my fourth birthday. I took to it like a duck to water. It's like I have this crazy inner beat or something. So, around 7th grade, some people started realizing that even though I was a girl that I had a) some mad skills and b) my own drum set which c) I knew how to play. So I was in a half dozen bands before Jared in Shorts got together at the beginning of my freshman year. Everyone in the band was older than me, but when we were jamming, it really didn't seem to matter.

And now, I was going away from all that. Not so much "going away" as literally "ripped apart from."

* * *

As we stepped on the plane at Bob Hope Burbank-Glendale-Pasadena regional Airport (which is neither in Glendale nor Pasadena), my mom patted my shoulder and said, "I'm sure they'll have other bands in Georgia."

Sure, Mom, right. Like you can just trip over people like Dom, Kat, Petey and Roman… Roman who had given me an awesome mix CD to play on the plane and the sweetest goodbye kiss ever.

My mom must've picked up on my pessimistic thoughts, because she said, "From what I've heard, you could always join the marching band. They have drums."

Do what now? Drums on the field are definitely not like a drum set.

This emo-punk sophomore almost junior doesn't DO marching band. I just never got it. I mean, who am I to judge who's cool or not, but the whole regimented, uniform, drill sergeant thing just never really appealed to me. Plus, the lame uniforms didn't help either. Plus, I could never figure out what "mark time" meant…

I curtly shook my head, but tried to put forth a nice effort for my mom, "Well, Mom, if that's my only chance to keep drumming, than I will give it a try."

Famous last words, Julia McCoy.

* * *

_AN: I literally could not stop this thing from writing itself. I got the idea last night…and couldn't shake it. I have to know what you think!_

_Don't expect frequent updates until the other **Lines** are done…_


	2. Line with a capital L

AN: Well, now that Lucy's on the shelf for awhile, it's time to stretch my creative self and see where I can go with Julia.

For a brief moment, I thought about doing some alternate universe thing where Julia would join the BHS drum line and meet Lucy…but maybe that's a one shot/story I can do eventually.

I do own the characters.

* * *

**Chapter 2: (As Yet Untitled)  
**

"_So what happens now?_  
_Another suitcase in another hall_  
_So what happens now?_  
_Take your picture off another wall_  
_Where am I going to?_  
_You'll get by, you always have before_  
_Where am I going to?"_

_**- Another Suitcase in Another Hall, (lyrics Tim Rice)**_

I shut off my iPod and thought sadly a moment. I'd be lying if I didn't really feel the Evita lyrics were kind of perfect for my current situation. I was in a very "So what happens now?" moment. My old band had been trying to make me feel better by sending me cute texts and calling since we hadn't hooked up our DSL yet, but there were these large holes in my life that hadn't even begun to be filled and I was wary exactly how I was going to start the filling.

I looked around my room at the boxes and cartons and tried to motivate myself to finish unpacking. So far, I had unsuccessfully unpacked my room but had completely set up my drum set (custom Pearl pink glitter, if you must know). Just knowing that my set made it across country safely had made me feel better. In fact, the first thing I did after checking out the new house was to carefully reconstruct it in the garage, put on my noise canceling earphones, and jam out. However, after I had worked up a sweat, I was right back in the dumps and all "Why am I even playing if I don't have a band?"

My funk was semi-broken when my mom came out to the garage, a cold Diet Dr. Pepper in hand (my favorite drink), and said, "Do you want to go by the school tomorrow? We can get some of the paperwork out of the way?"

Interacting with people my own age actually sounded like a lot of fun, so I say, "Sure," and take the Diet Dr. Pepper with a smile.

* * *

The next day we drive over to my new high school, which is kind of ridiculous because if you cut through this path, you can totally walk there in minutes, but my mom seems to want to make a better first impression than appearing at the school covered in leaves and branches. 

On the way over, it occurs to me that, apparently they go to school longer or care more about education more in the South, because my intended school is _still_ in session. And here I thought I had escaped institutions of higher learning for at least three months…

In my attempt to be very West coast and anti-establishment, my, I'll admit, carefully chosen, ensemble today was my favorite pink rhintestone studded tank top (my favorite color) and black skinny capris. Also, you will never see me wear closed toe shoes (my piggies have to breathe!), so black platform wedges completed the outfit.

It was nearing lunchtime when I finally convinced my Mom I was not only perfectly capable of walking home, but also communicating with the school counselor, Mrs. Estherhouse. So far, my new school Westlake HS, home of the Warriors, seems all typical and standard. The students here look mostly the same…except that in L.A. everyone was a son or daughter of _someone_. Here, they were all descended from Insurance Agents and dental hygienists… I wasn't sure how to have conversations with people who didn't get the Hollywood Reporter and Variety delivered right to their door.

Oh, crap, the nice counselor lady is talking to me.

"Well, Miss McCoy, judging from your transcript, I think you'll fit right in to Westlake."

She looks to me for a response, but I can think to do is nod.

She continues, "Are there any extracurricular activities that you're involved with? You know that college applications are right around the corner…"

Actually, the only thing I want to do is play in a band, _my_ band, Jared in Shorts, but I don't see that anywhere in the course offerings.

Instead, I said sweetly, "I'm sure I'll find something."

"There's nothing we can introduce you to?" there was a tone in her voice that really made me believe she wanted to help me.

Maybe this is the Southern hospitality they are always talking about. It's kind of annoying.

"Music," I mumbled, looking at my nails.

"Do you play an instrument?"

"Umm…drums," I said vaguely, hoping that she would take the hint and be done with the twenty questions. I didn't feel a need to expand my answer. On a side note, usually when you're a girl and you say drums, people look at you strangely and walk away slowly.

"Really?" she squealed.

Did she hear me correctly? I did just say the word 'drums,' right? Did she somehow hear me say something else entirely? Why did she squeal? I was obviously giving her a strange look, because the divine Mrs. Estherhouse clarified herself.

"So, you really play the drums?"

"Yes."

"Well, you're in luck."

How can it be lucky that I play the drums? If you play the drums do they give you a brand new set or something, because I would definitely be all over that…

But I have to admit, my curiosity was piqued, "Why am I in luck?"

"It just so happens that we have an excellent drum line."

I guess a drum line has to be pretty good if even the school counselor has heard of them. Then again, maybe that's just how they do things here. I always thought it was all Varsity Blues and everyone cared about football, but maybe drummers are the coolest people in the school or something.

"Really?" I say skeptically.

Minutes later I'm standing in the band room, which smells vaguely of spit and sweat, (double _yech_) and apparently waiting to talk to the band director.

An older, kind of balding man comes out and introduces himself, "Hi, I'm Mr. Mickelson."

We shake hands. So far, so good.

"I hear that you're a drummer."

"Drum_ set_ player," I gently remind him.

"And you're going to be a junior?"

"Yes."

Mr. Mickelson looks like he's trying to discern something.

"Do you want to audition?" there is a slight challenge in his voice.

My brain screeches to a halt. What is he even talking about? One second I'm all transcripts and schedules the next I'm suddenly audition for something? Who does this guy think he is?

My face must say it all.

"Ok, never mind, I thought you might be—"

"What do I need to do?" the words were out of my mouth before I even realized it. I guess Mr. M must've struck a chord with my inner percussionist. She wasn't about to not take the chance to show off her skills.

"Well, we had auditions a few weeks ago, but…well, why don't you just play some on the set and we'll see where you're at."

If there's one thing I will always take the opportunity to do, it's play a drum set. Any time, any place, _especially _if that place is a high school.

As I kick off my two inch heels, get my sticks (wrapped in matching pink and black) from my bag and settle behind the school's kind of decent drum set, I realize that since the first time I moved here, that I am really and truly smiling.

He crosses his arms and says, "Just play whatever you'd like."

I start and trancelike bust out this completely cool solo I've been kicking around. I am playing so loud that I don't realize a) the bell rings and b) I've collected an audience and that c) they are predominantly male with the exception of d) a lone female who is d) shooting daggers at me.

Mr. M has this small smile on his face, like he somehow expected this to happen. I choke the cymbal and look up, not backing down from the stares of the group.

Mr. M. nods to the collected group, "Miss McCoy, this is a good part of the Westlake drum line, including next year's Captain, Myron McDaniel."

_Myron?_ I've transferred to a school where they name kids Myron?

But Myron is in the back of the crowd and comes forward – all six feet plus of super choclate haired cuteness. He smiles and, I almost die, because he has one totally adorable one dimple.

Instead of getting embarrassed about his first name, he says, "Call me McDaniel."

Oh, I'll call you anything you want.

I flirtatiously say, "Julia McCoy," and wish for just a moment, that we still lived in a time period where guy's kissed girl's hands when they first met.

Mr. M shrugs and asks, "Miss McCoy has recently transferred to our school. Do you think there might be a spot for her on the Line?"

And for the first time I hear that Line is definitely capitalized. Odd.

McDaniel is obviously the guy in charge, "Well, we could add another tenor."

I squint my eyes and try to picture my old marching band. I think about my tenor drums and how silly that would look on the field. Obviously, everyone else collected (including Mean Eyed Girl) think it's funny as well, because they are all giving McDaniel skeptical looks.

Trying to be agreeable, I say, "Sure."

"For a trial basis," McDaniel adds, "I'll see you after school today and I have to talk it over with Denny."

Of course, Denny. Basically, anything this guy says, I would agree to. For instance, a dating type scenario.

"Sounds great," I said brightly.

"Just meet here. See you then."

* * *

For the last period of school, I went to the library and started looking through the yearbooks. After finding the current one, immediately, I look for one Myron McDaniel and see that he is a junior this year and photographs _very_ well. In the glossary next to his name there are a bunch of page numbers. 

I should probably start learning about my future husband, I muse to myself and flip to the pages where Mr. McDaniel can be found. Not at all surprising I found a page of what appears to be the entire marching band. As uniforms go, they didn't look that bad – black pants and some sort of light blue jacket with a kind of sharp looking design on top that actually did all sorts of slimming things for everyone in it. I mean, there were no fringed sleeves or super ugly hats or anything. Well, they did kind of have these big glove things going on, but I was fairly certain that percussionists wouldn't have to wear them.

Wait a minute. Was I actually considering joining the _marching band?_ If my friends could see me now…

Shaking my head, I turned the page to find an entire spread on the Drum Line. It didn't make a lot of sense to me, but maybe that's because I never really concentrated on any marching page before. At first glance, it was a rather unfriendly looking group. Well, at least on the field they were. As I scrutinized each picture individually, I found there were a bunch of group shots from the stands where everyone was smiling.

There were two pictures on the page that looked exceptional – one of my potential spouse, who looked downright intense playing the snare, traditionally, natch. It was a beautiful color picture that captured his hard sapphire blue eyes perfectly. His gaze looked even more intense because the strap from his Shako was in his mouth and all you could see were those eyes.

The other was Mean Eyed Girl, who looked equally intense playing some mallet instrument. Under her picture read the caption, "Sophomore Laurel O'Neil plays the marimba."

Laurel…somehow, I expected her to have a name like Ruth or Peggy.

The bell rang and it was time for me to face the music.

* * *

**AN: Can I just say how proud I am of myself? I didn't realize I had this completely different voice that I was capable of writing. Consider my own horn tooted.**

** Also, no offense if you are named Ruth or Peggy!  
**


	3. Crabstepping 101

_AN: Wow! Thanks for the response guys… Julia's muse is the loudest right now. She's currently a lot more fun to work on than any of the 8 million pages of revisions I need to be working on. As for darling Bronwyn, she's reverted to her freshman self and is being VERY shy._

_Oh well…_

_For the record, this is so much fun to write! I've actually been cracking myself up.  
_

_I do own the characters._

_**4.2.10 - lyrics update.**  
_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 3: Crabstepping 101**

_"First time  
That I saw your eyes  
Boy you looked right through me, mm mm  
Play it cool  
But I knew you knew  
That cupid hit me, mm mm_

_You got me trippin,' stumblin,' flippin,' fumblin'  
Clumsy 'cause I'm fallin' in love,  
So in love with you._

_Can't help it  
The girl can't help it,  
Can't help it._

**_- Clumsy, Fergie_**

Wow, walking through the crowded halls, suddenly I am actually nervous (!), which is really weird considering that's usually the LAST thing drumming makes me feel. Of course, and I'm being completely honest, Mr. McDaniel might have something to do with my current state of emotion.

So, I'm back in the band room and kind of wondering if His Royal Cuteness is even going to show…maybe this is some elaborate hoax they do to new kids. However, he's suddenly in front of me and this time he's not alone. There's some other cutie with him and they've got out this really weird looking drum. Actually, they have two identical weird looking drums sitting next together. It's got four, no five, parts to it and is vaguely reminiscent of tenor drums. Vaguely. Like if you squint your eyes, you can kind of see the resemblance. Kind of like second cousins…

McDaniel's says, "Julia, glad you showed up," and flashes me a brilliant smile.

Me too, buddy. Me too.

He continues, "This is the quint Lieutenant, Denny."

We shake hands. Denny's hand dwarfs my own.

And suddenly I'm confused, "I thought you said there was an open spot on tenors?"

Denny looks at McDaniel and there is this weird tense moment, but Denny says, "Quints are slang for tenors."

What-ever, but I say, "Cool."

Denny kneels down in front of the tenors…uh, quints…and motions for me to sit next to him. A 'please' would've been nice, but whatever…I kneel down.

Before actually thinking through the following statement, I reach out and touch the littlest tenor, and blurt out, "Look at this cute wee drum!"

I've been infatuated with drums for a long time (especially splash cymbals, but that's a story for another day…), but I've never seen anything so cute as the tiny little tenor.

Denny's eyes squint and under his breath I hear something vaguely like _Oh my God…_ but instead of responding to my random comment, he hands me a pair of mallet looking things, and says, "Just do what I do."

The mallets feel weird in my hands, but strangely familiar. Denny starts slow going through motions and notes on the drums. His hands are like poetry moving gracefully over the instrument. Well, buddy, I am a girl and I was born graceful.

I nod and repeat back what he has just played. I know rudiments and I definitely am not going to let some new guy show me up. At the end of the lick I bust out a little flourish that I feel would make the part better.

McDaniel and Denny look at me as if I'm from another planet.

"What's up with the weird looks? You both know I played the part perfect."

Denny asked incredulously, "You've never played tenors before?"

I shake my head dramatically, hoping that McDaniel will appreciate the champagne blonde highlights in my hair.

McDaniel crosses his arms, "So, what do you think?"

Denny crosses his arms as well, "She's never marched."

"Anyone can learn how to march!"

"For our Line and with our drill?"

I've had enough of this talking like I'm not even around thing, so I wave my hands and say, "Hello! I'm right here, why don't you just ask me?"

The both look at me and I kind of wish I hadn't said anything. The drums look incredibly heavy and I'm volunteering myself to play them. Furthermore, I'm still not one-hundred percent sure I even want to become a member of the Westlake marching band. I mean, if all the guys look like Denny and McDaniel, then I'll endure any amount carrying heavy drums around, but if there's going to be all this back talk and questioning of talent, then forget it. I can go back to playing my drum set and be just fine, thank you.

McDaniel says, "Fine, let's take the drums out to the parking lot and see if you can do a repeat performance."

Fine. That wasn't really asking my opinion, but since he's so cute, I'll let it slide.

Denny and McDaniel go into the percussion room and grab two weird looking metal contraptions. Denny lifts it over his head and I give him a strange look, to which he responds like I'm a five year old, "Carr-i-er."

I roll my eyes, but turn around and smile sweetly at McDaniel who is suddenly very close to me with a carrier all my own. He settles it over my head and my heart beats faster. Who knew today was going to turn out like this? This close I can vaguely smell his aftershave and laundry detergent scent.

"How does it feel?"

Hum-uh-nuh. Is he naturally like this or is he actually flirting with me?

I realize they are both looking for a response. Oops. I manage to say, "Actually, for such a scary looking device, it isn't cutting into me or anything."

Denny makes a move to the door, and McDaniel hefts the set of drums up on his shoulder, giving me an eyeful of his delicious biceps.

I feel like kind of a dork walking through the halls with nothing but a carrier on, but whatever. After a series of complicated turns and stairs (I should've left a train of bread crumbs or something), we finally get outside the school. I look over at McDaniel, who hasn't broken a sweat, carrying the drums and figure, how heavy can they be?

Then McDaniel heaves the quints off his incredibly broad shoulders and attaches them to my carrier. Not ready or expecting that kind of weight, I come very close to falling over on top of my crush. I paste a smile on my face and take a few unsteady steps. These things are HEAVY. I look down and see that my denimed legs and heels (!) have been replaced by metal and plastic. Denny is watching my face, so I try not to show any strain, even though it feels like these drums easily weigh more than I do.

Denny looks at me, and asks cockily, "Not so easy, is it?"

I straighten my own shoulders and stand up, feigning that I know what I'm doing and tell him with a cocky voice all my own, "Not that you're standing in 2 inch heels, but whatever, I can handle it."

Denny pulls his quints and they flip up, which looks infinitely more comfortable than the way they are on me. I do the same thing and behold! there are my legs and some relief for my back.

McDaniel lines up in front of us, "Ok, crash course in marching. For now, all you need to know heel-ball-toe. Roll your feet as you walk. Think military precision and hitting your left foot on the ground while I tap out notes."

That I can do. And so I'm all proud of myself as I'm walking…marching along to the quarter notes that McDaniel is tapping out.

For some reason, this does not appear to impress Denny at all, but then again, what does? He doesn't seem to have a lot of respect for his Captain or me, for that matter. He says, "Ok McDaniel, that kind of marching is great for parades and all, but on the field or the court the tenors don't have a lot of time for that. We crabstep."

Do what now? I am suddenly envisioning crab soccer from elementary school and wondering how it's possible to march like that.

"Let me demonstrate."

Denny proceeds to side step, _ahem_ crab step, a perfect horizontal line across the parking lot. He is gliding along so expertly that I barely notice as he drops his quints and starts playing.

McDaniel looks down at me, and asks, "Think you can do that?"

Has Ashlee Simpson had plastic surgery? Of course I can!

I flip down the quints, step out confidently (or at least what appears confidently, since inside I am FREAKING OUT!) and start side-stepping, I mean crab stepping. Feeling comfortable with that, I start playing, and I'm doing an okay job when all of the sudden one of my cute and flirty heels decides to break. I trip over something that I can't see and go forward, drums and all. I don't know if you can appreciate the truly horrible sound of metal meeting asphalt. It's a horrible sound. Also, there is suddenly a lot of pain coming from both my elbow and my knee. My shoes have somehow migrated across the pavement.

Denny and McDaniel are both at my side in a matter of seconds. I'm trying my best not to cry, but the tears in the corners of my eyes are more out of frustration then out of pain. Looking down, we all discover that I am kind of bleeding, which is SO not the impression I wanted to make today.

Suddenly, Denny goes all Dr. Shane West and starts managing the crisis. He scoops me up bridal style, gathers me and my shoes, and tells McDaniel, "Bring the quints in. I'm going to get Julia taken care of, stat."

Ok, he didn't really say 'stat,' but suddenly this is my ER fantasy, so whatever.

As Denny is rushing me down the hall, I get a good look at him close up. He's got thick dark hair which he has spiked up a la Chris Carrabba. His eyes, wait a minute, he's got different colored eyes! How did I not notice that before? There is one brown and one blue. His smell is similar to McDaniel's, but there is something else there…I will have to investigate this at a later time. I wiggle my foot and realize that I am entirely capable of walking, but, cooped up in his arms, I don't really feel like sharing this information.

"How are you feeling?" his voice rumbles in his chest.

I try my best to sound weak and pitiful, "Well, I've been better."

As we still have quite a distance to go, I try for small talk, asking the first question on my mind, "Do you think the quints are going to be ok?"

…And I've asked the single dumbest question ever. Why am I bringing up damaged instruments in front of their leader? I'm extraordinarily surprised when Denny doesn't dump me in the middle of the hallway.

Denny, who is currently whisking me up a flight of stairs as if I don't weigh anything, says, "Well, Aaron took a spill with them last year and they survived. Plus, you're a lot closer to the ground than he is."

I cross my arms grumpily, "Thanks a lot."

Denny shrugs, which brings me closer to his broad chest which I try not to notice, and says, "It's a statement of fact. Don't get mad about it."

Finally, we're back in the band room, which is somehow deserted. If it wasn't for the fact that I had just bled all over him, I might even consider this moment with Denny a romantic one. I'm thinking that he might also be thinking this, but then completely doubt myself. After all, wasn't he just yelling at me?

"Let me get the first aid kit."

He gently sits me down, and gets out the antiseptic. As he starts pulling some other medicine and bandages out, I am struck by how even though my _favorite _pair of jeans now have a hole (and blood…_and_ pavement) on them, it really isn't bothering me too much.

"This might hurt a little. You're going to have to be brave."

Even though he's talking to me like I'm a five year old (again), I don't mind all that much. Truth be told, I have tried to be brave up until now, but the sting of the pad soaked with hydrogen peroxide is too much. I let out a stream of curse words that would do a merchant sailor proud.

Denny looks at me and then starts laughing his head off.

That's how McDaniel finds us. I am cursing like it's going out of style, while Denny is laughing and cleaning me up. McDaniel has a very angry look on his face, which completely diminishes the hotness I originally saw. Then again, if I was forced to carry two REALLY heavy instruments, I might not be the world's nicest person either. Denny turns around and sees the look on his Captain's face and stops laughing.

McDaniel, muscles rippling, puts down the quints and asks, "So, is she in?"

I'm really wondering why my future spouse doesn't care more about _me_, but whatever. Both McDaniel and I look at Denny, who is considering the question.

He takes a deep breath and says, "She'll do. Quint 4."

From his tone of voice, I get that this has probably NEVER happened in the history of things in the Westlake drum line, so I say stoically, "I won't let you down."

The weird thing is, I really mean it. I mean, even though this instrument has gone and messed me up, for the eight seconds I was playing it, I absolutely loved it!

The weird tension is broken when a girl comes into the band room. She's wearing a cute skirt and tank top which I have admired at Anthropologie. I'm thinking, cool, potential new friend, when she goes and latches on to _my_ boyfriend's arm. So much for that theory.

* * *

_**AN: Well, I'm not getting published any time soon. I got rejected by the last agent who was reading. Being a writer sucks.**_

_**One note to make me feel better: the Shane West reference is a personal one – I used to work on ER (although I think Mekhi is cuter.)**_


	4. Atypical Situations

_**I haven't forgotten about Julia. I've just been working on another book…ok, just kidding, two books and traveling, a lot…**_

_**And who knew I had such a knack for naming my completely fictional characters real people's names?**_

_**AN: I do own the characters.**_

**Chapter 4: Atypical Situations**

I really don't like this girl standing in front of me. I mean, I think I like her even less than the girl who was glaring at me earlier today, which is saying a lot. Anthropolgie Skirt Girl is obviously no dummy. She's picked up on the fact that I am already completely in love with her boyfriend…? Friend? Cousin? I silently pray that they are just friends or related somehow, although there's no way I would be giving my cousin Chris looks like she's giving McDaniel. ASG squints her eyes at me and I resist the urge to stick out my tongue at her. Then again, I kind of recognize that maybe I wouldn't like me either, but if she knows that McDaniel and I are meant to be, why can't she just back off already?

Denny seems to have also figured out that the mood in the room has changed as well. In a transformation worthy of a superhero, he has quickly morphed from cute and flirty to growly and stern.

"Who's this?" My now arch-enemy asks in a kind of high pitched and squeaky voice that has a underlying disgusted tone to it.

And then suddenly I see how she's seeing me. I realize I'm kind of a pitiful mess on the floor and this is probably the worst first impression that I will ever give someone. Why would she back off of me and McDaniel? I'm sure to this chick I'm just some gross new girl bleeding all over the floor of the band room. What does she have to worry about?

McDaniel answers her question, "The newest member of the Westlake Drum Line, Julia McCoy."

"I thought auditions were awhile ago," she challenges. Her comment definitely tweaks my interest. They already had auditions? Was I really that good with my set playing or does McDaniel just think I'm cute? At this point, either answer will make me happy.

McDreamy, I mean McDaniel, responds, "Only three quints were quality enough at tryouts, so technically we had another spot." Oh. Well, I guess it wasn't the cute thing. Darn!

At this point I feel like I should probably add to the conversation, rather than sit helplessly on the ground. I ask bluntly, "Who are you?"

"My name is Kimberly." She says it with such authority I wonder if I'm supposed to know or care who or what a 'Kimberly' is.

Apparently, this is obvious on my face because Denny provides the details, "Kimberly is one of our Drum Majors."

Drum Major? Does that put her in charge of our section? I thought McDaniel was our Captain. I'm confused.

Denny sighs deeply and begins speaking in his newly minted "Julia is a five year old tone," "The Drum Major is the person or one of the people that leads the entire band. She's like a conductor."

Well, _this_ drum set playing gal has never had to watch a conductor, band director, or orchestra leader. Behind my drums I set my own tempos. Plus, I mean, does this Kimberly even play an instrument? What right does she have to go around conducting everyone? Who made her Queen of the Band?

I guess everyone at Westlake can read my mind, because Kimberly adds, "I'm also first chair trumpet during the concert season."

All the things these people are saying make no sense to me. What is a first chair? What is the concert season?

I guess McDaniel decides that we've all had enough of each other for now and says, "Julia, you'll obviously need to go over the fundamentals of marching before we start sectionals for the summer. I will expect Denny and you to work out some sort of practice schedule."

The wheels in my head come crashing to a halt and I begin to realize that I may be in over my head. Not that I would ever admit to that. I'm not the girl who backs down from anything. However, I had pictured this summer filled with lazy days by the pool, maybe a fun summer job, and definitely finding a new band to play with.

Denny looks at me, "How about tomorrow afternoon?"

I mutter sarcastically, "Well, I'll have to check my busy social schedule, you know, since I just moved here four days ago."

Denny, McDaniel, and Kimberly share a look that basically says, "This girl is going to be trouble." Whatever, let them deal with it. Being sarcastic and boy crazy has gotten me to a lot of fun places in my almost sixteen years.

I gather my bookbag, shrug and say, "What time?"

Denny answers, "Two-thirty, no heels, no flip flops."

I think of my pink Chuck Taylors and nod, "See you then."

I walk out of the band room, through the halls of my new high school and just as I'm about to walk out I see a bulletin board. With a very important sign. It reads simply "Battle of the Bands." Like a magnet I walk over to it and scan the details. Breathing a sigh of relief, I have this instant feeling that no matter what happens over the next two years, things will ultimately be ok. I pull out my Hello Kitty notepad and jot down the directions. Who knows? Maybe I'll find a new band while I'm there. Life is just more fun when you have band practices and gigs to look forward to.

Tucking my notepad away and pulling out my nano iPod, I walk back home, listening to Jared in Shorts songs on the way. I try not to get nostalgic and sad, but it's tough. Back at my new house, I feel weirdly inspired and motivated to take my mind off the move and the fact that I will not be seeing anyone I know anytime soon. It's not too difficult to find something to concentrate on. I think back about the conversation in the band room. The thing is, I hate not knowing about things. I hate being on the outside of things. I don't want anyone to think I don't know what I'm talking about. So, I log onto my computer and type in 'marching band' and a whole bunch of websites appear. For the better part of three hours, I read as much as I can and decide that at least I will be joining the best section in the marching band.

At dinner, my parents are all inquisitive about my afternoon.

My mom asks tentatively, "Is there anything you're going to get involved in?"

See, my parents aren't too bad about the super pressure that is "what you do in high school ultimately affects the rest of your life," but I know that, as their only child, they don't want to raise a total slacker.

I twirl pasta around my fork, "Well, I'll be taking mostly honors courses and…I guess I might be joining the marching band."

My parents smile across the table at each other. It's actually the kind of smile that makes me feel really good inside. I'm sure they had some reservations about moving and somehow hearing me get involved in something makes them feel better.

Dad asks, "So, when will you know for sure if you're joining?"

Thinking of McDaniel, I say, "I kind of auditioned this afternoon for the Drum Line…and, I made it."

For the first time in years, Mom actually squeals, "Honey! Why didn't you say anything? That calls for a celebration!"

Dad leans over and squeezes my hand, "We'll celebrate this weekend. Pick any restaurant you'd like. We should start to get to know the city."

Bonus!

The following day, Denny and I are back in the parking lot, the quints are at our feet. If I look closely, I think I can see part of my jeans and a chunk of my skin on the parking lot. Looking down, I am pleased with the outfit I have chosen today. I have on a very cute pleated black linen skirt, my classic pink Chuck Taylors and a white wifebeater. Denny gave me a strange look when I showed up in the band room, but I think that just because I am drumming that is no excuse not for me to look cute. Besides, I wore sneakers like he asked. Oh, crap, I should be paying attention.

"Were you listening to anything I said?"

I answer honestly, "No."

Denny runs a hand through his spiked hair and asks, "Do you really want to learn how to march?"

"I have to learn to march if I want to be on quints, right?"

"Right."

"Then, it doesn't really matter if I _want _to do anything. It's something I _have_ to do."

Denny looks confused and partially like he's completely regretted the decision to add me to his section, but sucks it up and proceeds to drill me for the better part of two hours. Mind you, this is all sans instruments. I look longingly over at my quints, which I have secretly decided to name Quincy, and even though I know they are SO heavy, I think they look bad ass and I do not want to be crabstepping around the parking lot playing imaginary quints.

Finally, Denny decides we've had enough and we break for water. I have sweat more this afternoon than I have in a long time, but it's the good kind of perspiration. While we are at the water fountain, a young Westlake male approaches us. He is vaguely attractive in that jock-esque way. Well, he was kind of attractive for about 3.5 seconds until he actually pushes past Denny like he's in this big hurry to drink water.

Not sure if it's the heat I've been subjected to, or if it's just the fact that no one really knows me, but in defense of my new section mate I say, "Excuse me?"

Denny pulls on my arm to walk away saying quietly, "Don't worry about it, Julia."

The jock, who is at least a foot taller than me, "Yeah, that's right, Napoleon. Walk away."

Denny literally has to pull me away from the scene. When we haven't made it all that far down the hall I ask, "What the hell was that about?"

My section leader doesn't really strike me as the type who just walks away from scenarios like what just happened. Well, maybe… I suddenly think about the underlying tension between McDaniel and Denny and wonder if maybe Denny doesn't have a little problem with sticking up for himself.

Denny looks down the hall and back at me, before saying, "I used to play football."

And suddenly I can see Denny Napoleon as a football player – all cute and perfect in his uniform. Maybe Denny can see that I am seeing this and he flushes.

"Did you recently quit or something?"

He looks off, "When I came to high school."

There's something in his voice that tells me, of course, there's SO much more to the story, but also for the time being I should just really shut up about it. So, I'll respect that for now.

Trying to be an exemplary member of the quint section I change the subject, "Are we done for the day?"

He nods, but says with a small smile, "Tomorrow with quints."

I am so excited! I go home and sign online to talk to Kat. I could call her, but sometimes it's more fun to just chat about things.

_TheKat: Howdy y'all!_

_Setplayher: Ha ha._

_TheKat: Have things improved any? Did you see McDaniel today?_

_Setplayher: Yes and no. Things are improving, but no sign of my future husband today._

I sit back and look at the computer. Half of the reason I got all dolled up today was because I thought for sure the Captain would make an appearance at my marching practice today. Maybe he just trusts Denny that much… I hope it's not because he was busy with anyone named Kimberly.

_TheKat: How did the 'marching lesson' go today? (Is that what the kids in the South are calling it these days?)_

_Setplayher: It **was** a marching lesson, but things surrounding my section leader grow more mysterious – apparently he used to play football._

_TheKat: I always thought drumming and sports didn't mix. _

_Setplayher: That was always my motto._

_TheKat: So, you have a one-time jock in charge? That could be interesting._

_Setplayher: I know. I've got to find out what went on there._

_TheKat: Well, it sucks that you aren't here. I totally saw Tom Welling today when I was shopping._

_Setplayher: Jealous!_

_TheKat: He was Super Cutie McCutes, but it would've been more fun if you were there._

_Setplayher: Awww, thanks. Well, I hate to cut things short, but I am in desperate need of a shower. Talk later?_

_TheKat: You know it._

_  
**AN: It's a fluffy chapter, I know. Chalk it up to a bit of character development. **_

_**PS I'd also like to give a plug to my non-marching story, Take One at Mulholland High. I'd really appreciate anyone's thoughts on it!**_


	5. Battle of the Bands

_**Long time, no see. I'm home for good and ready to get my write on!  
**_

_**AN: I do own the characters and the story.**_

* * *

**Chapter 5: Battle of the Bands**

It is so totally frustrating when you don't know the backstory of a character. Let's take my own life, for example, I think we all get that I love playing drum set preferably in a rock band scenario. I like guys – especially of the young, hot and McDaniel persuasion. What more is there really to know? I don't have any deep dark secrets in my past. I mean I'm as sane/crazy as the next girl.

Denny, on the other hand, is this complete mystery person. I mean, I thought I had him pegged: drummer, kind of cutie, quiet, more passive than aggressive. I guess I got a few parts of that right. But if he used to play football, then what position was he? Why did he quit? What kind of fall out did that leave? Yargh. Isn't this is the part in the film when I make a new best friend in the area who can totally fill me in on everything? Right?

Wrong.

Who am I going to meet who has that information? I can't very well hang around the school tomorrow and ask every girl who walks by if she knows details on Denny Napoleon. I don't want to get a reputation of a stalker girl before school even starts.

Wait a minute – what about that Laurel girl from earlier? She's on the drum line and I bet she knows everything there is to know about the guys on the Line.

I should point out that basically, the phrase "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission" should've been tattooed on me when I was born. I quickly jump on Google and punch in Denny's name. Sure enough, he's got a blog, which I begin reading with interest. It only goes a few months back and there are only vague references to this weird falling out he had with the football team. I will read in detail later, but for the most part he seems like a fairly normal teenage boy. I swiftly move back over to Google and type in Laurel O'Neil. _She's_ got a blog too. On it, she's listed her IM name. I am not surprised in the least when I read that it is: LilDrummerGirl.

In a few clicks, I've added her to my buddy list and see that she's online. Cracking my fingers, I debate exactly how and what to write to her this nice evening.

_Setplayher: Uh…so, you know about the guys?_

_Setplayher: Hey! It's Julia, that girl you were glaring at earlier today…_

_Setplayher: What's the deal with Denny?_

Deleting all of these killer opening lines, I decide to go with a simpler approach:

_Setplayher: Hey Laurel, it's Julia._

I hold my breath and press 'enter' and wait for awhile before the divine Miss O'Neil finally decides to respond. She's not going to make this easy on me. I enter into a mental debate whether or not I should've used an emoticon, when she comes back with this zinger.

_LilDrummerGirl: Hi._

Wow, isn't she a stunning conversationalist? Ok, must not let sarcastic comments come out on screen.

_Setplayher: So, since we're going to be section mates and all that I was wondering if we could maybe get together sometime?_

I decide that killing her with kindness might be my best option.

_LilDrummerGirl: Why?_

…And she immediately sees through my ruse. Well, at least she's got some brains to go with that matched grip. Of course, I can at least act offended.

_Setplayher: What do you mean, why? I'm new to town and going to be marching on your Line and all I get is 'why?'_

There are a few moments before she begins typing. Sure, these are not the best terms to begin a friendship, but I need answers, dammit.

_LilDrummerGirl: Fine. _

I drum my glitter painted fingernails on the desk for a moment before typing.

_Setplayher: Were you planning on going to the Battle of the Bands on Saturday?_

_LilDrummerGirl: Maybe._

I idly wonder if drumming has somehow rendered Laurel incapable of typing anything longer than one word sentences.

_Setplayher: Great! We can go together. I'll meet you in front of the school around 1PM?_

A little trick from all my Los Angeles friends – never give the opportunity to say no. It's obviously worked, because Laurel is slow to answer.

_LilDrummerGirl: Uhh…ok._

_Setplayher: See you then!_

It doesn't exactly help me figure out the mystery of Denny any sooner, but it does give me someone to go to the event with.

* * *

Determined to make an impression at the Battle, I convince my mom to loan me her credit card and hit the mall on Friday afternoon. Denny has given me the afternoon off and promises that next week I'll meet the rest of my section. Rejoice. More people who probably don't like me before they've met me! Whee! 

My new Mall is nice…it's got a good selection and in no time I've come up with a great alterna-girl outfit that says, "I may be a girl, but I can still jam on set."

* * *

After a rather normal evening with my parents dining at a local Indian establishinment, Bollywood Café, Saturday finally rolls around. After a serious getting ready session, at 12:45 I yell to my parents, "Going to the Battle, be back later!" 

I debated actually taking my sticks with me, but I think that would kind of be overkill. Walking over to the school I wonder if Laurel is actually going to show. I mean, I've seen her online since then, but resisted the urge to confirm lest I give her a reason to back out. Also, since I only saw her once, I'm kind of hoping I haven't forgotten what she looks like. And there she is…

Laurel O'Neil definitely stands out…and not in a good way. She is wearing, what I can only assume is her marching band t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. She looks uncomfortable. I've always been of the opinion that I can tell a lot about people from their shoes. I risk a look at what is covering her feet. They are regular running shoes. Not Puma's, Adidas, flip flops, Chuck Taylors, or Vans…just regular shoes. I didn't even know you could buy shoes like that any more. Oh crap, she's seen the look on my face. Of course, she kind of has a similar expression on her face.

Oh no, she does NOT think something is wrong with what I'm wearing. I've carefully selected my favorite camouflage capris with my new white tank top studded in rhinestones that reads "Princess" on the front. The whole ensemble is capped off by an awesome camo fisherman's hat and earthy espadrilles.

We both look as if we don't want to be seen with the other.

I decide to go the killer kindness route and start gushing, "Hey Laurel! So good to see you! I was afraid we weren't going to be able to find each other today."

"Is that why you dressed so loudly?"

I make a decision then and there that Miss I'm From Georgia doesn't know a thing about SoCal style and joke, "Did you not want me to find you? Is that why you dressed so vanilla?"

Laurel looks for a moment as if she's going to cry, then starts walking away from the stage. I sigh, then run after her and say, "I was just kidding, Laurel…don't stress."

"Fine," she grumbles.

"Is there any band you particularly want to see?" I start pulling her in the direction back towards the stage.

"Not sure really."

I stop and put my hands on my hips, "There is no way that you do not know a band you want to see. You're a drummer!"

Laurel rolls her eyes, "All the guys are in bands!"

"Is everyone playing today?"

"Uhh…"

"Come on, pick one."

"I don't know."

"If you had to pick one whose would it be?"

"Denny's!" she blurts out, then claps a hand over her mouth, flushing red.

Aha! Jackpot! She's going to know everything about him because she has a giant crush on my section leader. Must not exploit knowledge.

I pretend as if I don't know that she has a major case of like for Mr. Napoleon and say, "Let's go check when his band plays."

We wander over to the check in area and Laurel starts filling me in on all the percussionists we pass. For the uninitiated, going to a Battle of the Bands might as well be billed as "Cute Indie-Type Boy Fest" as well. I hadn't even really gone to one legit school day and already I could tell that I was going to fit in just fine to Westlake. Laurel and I got a spot near the stage and waited while one band cleared and another got ready. Given that there were no roadies, etc., this process could take awhile. It was a nice afternoon, well, with the exception of the crazy humidity, it was turning out ok. There was a small hill over looking the stage that everyone had spread out on.

After we picked a spot, I asked, "So?"

"So what?" answered Laurel defensively.

"What about Denny?"

"Why would I know about Denny?"

This girl had a serious case of denial. Rather than alienate her further, I kept it casual, "So, we were practicing the other day and out of nowhere this jock guy is all 'back off.' Any idea what that was about?"

Laurel looks skeptical to discuss the topic.

I nudge her, "Come on, I mean, I'm going to learn the truth sooner or later, so why don't I at least get what the real story is from you?"

She seems momentarily flattered, and says, "Around eighth grade, it was like there was this day where suddenly kids in band became geeks and the jocks became cool. Denny was stuck in the middle."

I nod, although there wasn't an official day like that where I came from, there was something similar to it.

"We didn't have a specific football team for middle school, just the regional sports team. Anyway, Denny was the star quarterback."

It didn't take much for me to picture him in that role.

"So what happened?" I ask.

"Basically, the way I've heard, there was some big misunderstanding between Denny and Coach Lewis. Denny wanted to do both, but the Coach made him choose. When push came to shove, Denny decided he would rather drum."

I shrug, "Well, I'm sure there's lots of quarterbacks at a school this size."

"That's just the thing, there's not."

I filled in the blanks pretty quickly, "And the football team doesn't have a good record and they blame Denny?"

Laurel nodded, "Basically that's been his life for the past two years."

"Poor guy."

"Uh-huh."

"Do you think he regrets his decision?"

Laurel looks away, "I don't know. He doesn't like talking about it."

Wow, it's like this whole soap opera in high school and I landed right in the middle of it. It makes the weird thing with the football player make a lot of sense. Our conversation is interrupted when the next band starts. Throughout the afternoon, a bunch of different bands play and I have to admit, some of them are half way decent. Of course, there is much more XY running around than anyone XX. The girls that I've seen so far remind me a lot of Kat. I mean, they're not as good as she is, but a wave of homesickness rushes over me and I text her quickly to let her know I'm thinking of her.

I stretch for a moment and ask Laurel, "I'm going to go get some water, do you want anything?"

She shakes her head.

"Hope to see you when I get back," I say, half joking. For all I know Laurel could decide she'd had enough of me and my Spanish Inquisition and be MIA by the time I get back.

As I make my way to the concession stand, I notice a group of guys arguing loudly with each other. They're being loud, obnoxious teenagers, so it's kind of hard not to hear what the disagreement is about.

"He said he'd be here!"

"Dude, I know, but he's not here and we go on in like 5 minutes."

"Call him again!"

Bingo!

Hands in the back pockets of my cargos, I saunter over, keeping my fingers crossed that the missing 'dude' is a drummer and ask, "What seems to be the trouble here, boys?"

They look appreciatively over me for about four seconds, then ignore my question completely. I look over the cases in front of me. While the Battle sponsors have supplied a drum set, most drummers supply their own set of cymbals. I see a bass guitar case, and some other instrument cases, but nothing resembling a cymbal bag is present.

"You guys missing a drummer?"

The three boys in front of me stare. One of them has the decency to nod.

I look over at the local drum store which has a booth set up…complete with drum sticks for sale.

"It just so happens that I am a set player."

* * *

**_AN: I will get back to marching…believe me, Julia is going to be learning a lot over the span of this story! Please review. _**


	6. Apologies, Thank yous

_**AN: I've already said thank you's to each of you as you've reviewed, so I'm not going to do that. Instead, I'm just going to be honest.**_

_Seriously, what happened with Crossing the Line?_

So, here's me, six books finished (yay!), and I honestly thought I was getting better and better at this whole writing thing. As I started the edit on_Crossing_, it occurred to me that maybe I wasn't as hot stuff as I thought I was. Still, I would like to offer up some reasons as to the overall lack of plot in this story, as a way of apologizing to you, the reader:

1. I published a book! (You know, **The Line – **got your copy yet?)

2. I finished another book (**Mulholland**), 1 novella (**The Art of Music**), and started another novella (**The Art of Sound**), not to mention random short stories, etc.. While I'm used to writing multiple projects at one time, I think in this case, my work really suffered because of it.

3. Marketing **The Line**. I so want this book to be successful, and so, well, have put a lot of time and energy into trying to make that happen.

4. I was working. Yeah, a lot of my crazy jobs in real life aren't conducive to hours of writing.

5. I relocated countries. Yeah, that would take a lot out of anyone.

6. Too many plot bunnies that went nowhere.

7. I don't outline or plan anything when I write. All I do is say, "Here is this character, where is she going to take me?" Maybe I should do a little more planning...

_One more thing…_

Please disregard Chapter 16. It is beyond bad. That's why I've already re-written it.

_So, what's next?_

Lots and lots (and lots) of editing. It's one of my least favorite things to do, but getting a book from rough draft to first draft takes awhile, and it's the second draft that takes the most out of me.

A young adult novel is supposed to fall around 45 - 55K words. The current draft of CTL is over 80K. Uh…I'm sure you can do the math.

Other than that,_Somewei _and I will continue **Art of Sound**, and I hope to write sequels for **Crossing** (venturing into the world of WGI) and **Muholland**, as well as my one last original drum line girl book (yup, there is an idea I haven't done yet). Oh yeah, and finish the 100 drabbles project. And _goldnote_ mentioned maybe me taking a shot at editing **Hearts of Glass**. And so many of my chapters still need lyrics. And, I really need to get serious about getting an agent. So, I have plenty to keep me busy…but it's all the kind of stuff that you won't be seeing.

_Want to help?_

Be brutal, but constructive. Was there a plot line you didn't like? Or that wasn't resolved and should've been? A character that made no sense or didn't add to the story? Something that did actually work? You want to edit a book? If you don't feel comfortable doing this as a review, I am always happy to receive PM's.

I'm a big girl and I can take it. I'm trying to figure out what the problem is. Mostly, I think it's my complete lack of an A storyline. Julia is a very different character than Lucy or Bronwyn, and the world of Westlake is far different than my home base of Brookwood. Without my usual drama (the tension between the girls and guys), I got caught up in everything else and the story suffered. I know that **Crossing** has lots of good parts in it, and is worth making better.

_Which brings me to…_

Your all time favorite scene/moment/line of dialogue in this story was…

What do you want to see happen in the next book?!

As always, you, the reader, give me motivation and support to continue.

All the best…keep writing…and reviewing,

Courtney


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